Claspy's Gripping Adventure, Chapter Two

 Chapter 2 - Sticking Your Nose In
The manager of the Quick Pick N Stick looks a lot like almost every grocery store manager in existence. His rotund figure and pale white skin are covered by dirt cheap cotton of various primary colors along with well-worn khakis that hang over a fresh pair of Snicker-Doodle Retail Sneakers. A small metal nameplate is tucked into an upper pocket, reading “Greggory Smith.” Sausage fingers flick a small piece of plastic in their pocket over and over, and sweat stands out in rolling rivulets across the sea of forehead they possess. Much like every grocery store manager, they have their fingers in quite a few pies- and not just the ones they sell in the bakery. Their girth wanders across the front of the store, walking from register to register talking to each of the cashiers.
“Don’t act weird, don’t act weird, just be normal…”
Claspar, multicolored hair waving in the breeze of the industrial strength fans, and Jean-Pascal, shedding her winter coat to reveal her expensive custom-made suit, walk briskly through the plexiglass doors of the store. Jean-Pascal’s eyes seek, taking in and examining facts. She sees the nervousness of all the employees- this can be because of the murder committed in the parking lot, or because their manager is a licentious tub of lard. She sees the well maintained shelves, the orderliness of each item, the exactitude that they have been shown to the store. She sees the way the registers are organized along the rounded entry of the store, in a horseshoe pattern, done to prevent retail theft by filtering all of the customers through a central area. She sees the way the manager walks towards them, the pace of their feet, the movement of their chest as they huff and puff. She sees it all.
Clapsy looks closely at the store- they have shopped here before, but mostly for liquor and over-the-counter medical supplies. They see multiple people with names they know, and their eyes quickly scan the ceilings. They notice that cameras are placed in ideal positions to spot shoplifters. They notice the cheap plastic arches outside of the doors, both of which are fakes, neither of them actually able to detect any products. He notices the way the cashiers squirm, none of them able to keep their eyes from drifting towards the two detectives. Finally they notice something that Jean-Pascal does not. Between the shelves, in the produce section, a small slip of white powder stands out against the bright yellow floor tiles. Claspy grins to themself, unable to resist the urge to jump to a dramatic conclusion.
Greg finally finishes their perilous and perturbed journey from the back office to the front of house, putting out their paw to meet the detectives. The two of them reach out at the same time, three hands colliding in a traffic jam of fingers and knuckles.
“Hello, I’m-”
“Hows it go, we’re-”
“Good afternoo-”
A beat of silence. Eyes meet in awkward silence. The three-hand pileup is disentangled. Claspy plunges forward, rubbing some feeling back into their polydactyl hands Small gears turn and twist.
“Good afternoon, Mister Manager, we are members of the New Yorkian Citizen’s Militia. I am Detective Alejandro Claspar Delegardo, First Rank, and this is my partner, Jean-Pascal de Guignes, Detective-Majeur. We are in charge of investigating the murder that has been committed outside of your store. I believe it would be good for all of us if you cooperated with our investigation.”
Jean-Pascal nods, approving of the direct and professional attitude, as she takes out her Notebook, beginning to surreptitiously record the conversation and mimicking the actions of typing around the record button. Greg licks his lips, the sweat stains on his armpits slowly expanding by micrometers each second.
“Yes, yes, yes, hello to the both of you. Anything, anything at all that the two of you need, I’ll be hapy to assist with in any way, any way at all.”
“Perfect! All we need is access to all of your surveillance footage for the past, oh, month or so. Both inside and outside. If my memory is correct, those cameras are the new are the new SurvFacing ExtraEyes. Not a good name, in my opinion, beautiful said memory is still correct, they work on a closed loop system and an external memory drive. All they do is record and write- which means you most likely have the footage stored on a lil’ drive back there.”
Claspy’s eyes are like two blue-gold saucers. They stare intently with every word they say. Greg licks already wet lips. His hands tie to each other, knuckles moving as though they have a mind of their own. Around him the store keeps turning, customers in a slow trickle moving between the wall and the detectives. A few surreptitious photos are snapped of the pair of detectives.
“O-o-of course, officer, I would be more than happy to, uh, assist in any way I can.”
Another beat of silence.
“Then why are you not leading us to your back room, Mister Manager.”
Behind them, Jean-Pascal’s eyes narrow to slits, a move her and Claspy have practiced before. Claspy’s relative shortness allows Jean-Pascal to perch behind their shoulder when interrogating. The dual vision is like a massive heat lamp pointed directly at Greg. He quakes.
“L-l-look, sirs, I have-”
“Sir, and ma’am, please.”
Greg’s eyes bug out.
“Yes please, follow me!”
They heelturn, walking quickly towards the rear of the store, unable to stand anymore of the duo. The two follow quickly, walking briskly through the gathering crowd. They arrive at the back office in a short few minutes, pushing it open and staring in disbelief at what they see. Scatterd about a room the size of a large walk-in closet is an entire forest of paper, not a surface in sight that doesn’t have some sort of multicolored covering. Claspy stares, mouth agape, and Jean-Pascal smirks as she presses forward past the lumbering hulk to get to the laptop connected to a safety code-breaking array of wires and USB connectors. Greg stammers.
“He-he-here we are, the head of my o-o-operations. Let me just log on…”
The two officers watch closely as the sausage fingers move at a speed heretofore thought impossible. Jean-Pascal memorizes the password and username through habit, and Claspy notices the wear and tear on some of the keys that roughly equates to a popular pornography site. The screen becomes filled with small windows, each showing an angle of the store with a wide fishangle lens filming.
“W-we have the cameras on a twelve hour cycle, to save battery. It turns on w-when or if the a-alarms go off. We haven’t had any i-issues for the past few weeks- nothing more important than the o-occasional houseless taping on the door.”
A silent groan passes over the detective's faces. Claspar feels the first lead falling apart, slipping apart in the palace of their mind.
“Seriously? No footage from night time?”
Gregory feels the pressure in the room rise by at least an atmosphere.

“W-well no, w-we don’t f-feel it to be be n-n-necessary-”
Claspar presses forward, leaning down to meet Greg at eye level.
“Why?”
“W-what?”
“Tell me why.”
“W-well w-we just d-didn’t see any-”
“Tell me why.”
“B-but-”
“You want an investigation into this place?”
“N-n-noo!”
“GIve us the nighttime footage for the parking lot over the last six months.”
A beat of extreme silence. Jean-Pascal ceases jotting down the conversation. Gregory breathes heavily. Claspar stares intently, eyes boring holes into their target. Gregory quietly retrieves a thumb drive from the mountains of drawers, putting it on the table and then leaving the room.
“I h-h-have a store to manage…”
“Go outside and manage your store, Greg, and don’t bother us while we look at these.”
Greg slinks away, leaving the heady remnants of body odor and stress. Jean-Pascal, allowing her face to twist into a sneer of disgust, retrieves a small spray bottle from their suit and begins to douse the room in the liquid, the sweet scent of citrus beginning to overpower the already present odors. Claspy begins to load up the footage, gingerly arranging a sheaf of receipt paper across the chair in order to prevent the probable build-up of sweat and grime from transferring to their new suit. Jean-Pascal claps a congratulatory hand on their shoulder.
“Excellent job, Alejandro.”
The sound of experienced fingers moves along the keys, bringing up small mini players along the screen. Their eyes seek and scan, then find one containing the murder scene and bring it up to fill the screen, leaning back and watching the footage from several months ago at 1.5 times speed like a podcast fan in a rush the footage beginning to move at frame by frame.
“This is a gold mine if you have an interest in stop motion videos about protests. Been a hard few months, it seems.”

Jean-Pascal puts her hand on Claspar’s shoulder. “I don’t think we can review all of this here, bud.”
Whatever spell the screens cast on Claspar are broken, and they look up from the shining pixelated screen to Jean-Pascal’s face, wearing a look of bemusement and annoyance. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. We can save it for until we get back to the station.” They think for just the tiniest moment. “You think Greggy-boy’ll put up a fight if we try to take the stick, or drive, or whatever?”
“Frankly, I think we could make off with the whole kit ‘n’ caboodle.”
Claspar begins ripping wires out of the wall, carefully wrapping them around the precious source of information as Jean-Pascal whips out her notebook and begins drawing up a notice of search-and-seizure, sending a copy to the Station, another to Claspar for record-keeping purposes, and a third to Steven Yewen, head lab tech of the Sever’s Cuboid Tech Division, with the subject “All Play and No Work Make Steve A Dull Boy.” Claspy turns to her holding a large pile of electronics and smiling widely.
“The mines bear us fruit, wise one.”
“What?”
Claspy begins to walk bowlegged, swinging the computer parts in a gentle arc, making care to keep them steady. “Our bounty this morrow is rich, indeed, and shall feed us for many a moon.”
“I thought you’d stop this bit once I made you lead.”
“Some promises are made to be broken, moon sister.” They walk out of the room, partially squatting and bouncing on the heels of their feet. “We must bring our riches to the burrow, sister, and allow our brethren to feast!”
This is yelled quite close to a crowd of citizens, which makes many of them stare. Some stare in outright confusion, others in bemused, some people smirk, one sneers, and quite a few bite their lip as their vision is dragged below the belt. Regardless of these reactions, Claspar is dutifully followed by the bulk of Jean-Pascal, which heads off any potential commentors at the pass with a scowl, a piercing look, and purposeful flex of the biceps. This does little to prevent Greg, their shirt now mere cotton supporting a thin veneer of sweat, to rush forward in contemplative rage.

“Young man! Just what the hell do you think you’re doing in my store? Put down my computers!”
Claspy stands up, and moves their face real close, their eyes staring intensely into Greg’s.
“Listen here you fuck. We are taking these, and you will shut your fuckin’ mouth about it, and you’ll listen to my godamn directions. You quit sellin’ that shit out of this godamn store, otherwise I’ll call every inspector imaginable and shut you down for a wide variety of health infractions. And if that doesn’t work, well, maybe I’ll just come down here and shut it down myself.”
Like a soufflé jostled by an earthquake, Greg deflates. His shoulders go limp, he hangs his head, and his knees bend hard. Claspy and Jean-Pascal leave the store unmolested, staring at the employees. Jean leans close to Claspy as they leave, whispering.
“What did you just say to him?”
“Nothin’, moon sister, just reminded him of where his powder sits.”
“I still have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, chief.”
Claspy turns. “He was selling powder out of his store. I have no opinion on it myself, but I could see he was nervous, so I decided to try somethin’. It worked out.”
Jean-Pascal, usually the picture of equanimity, stares open-mouthed as Claspar for a split second, then claps her hand on their shoulder.
“Proud of you, bud.”
The two approach the scene of the crime again, which has now been reinforced with officers from neighboring districts in order to manage the influx of citizenry. The scene is still bloody, but it has been washed away slightly by a light shower. The ground is covered with a light sheen, windshields are coated with small droplets, and hat brims still drip slightly as the midmorning clouds part. The morgue van has finally arrived, a bubbling converted vehicle that eats transmission fluid. Medical examiners, pulling double duty, jump out of the vehicle and begin rolling up. The crowd parts, small pockets moving away to finish their morning chores, and a number waving to Claspy as they exit the scene. Claspar gently inserts the desktop into their trunk, shutting it with a few happy taps against the trunk, feeling the new paint under their fingers, the solid ground beneath their feet, and the sun warming the back of their neck as they stare off into the horizon of the raising sun.
“Alejandro? You okay?”
Claspar looks at Jean-Pascal.
“Just thinking.”
“About anything in particular?”
Claspar grins. “Hours and hours of parking lot footage, baby! Let’s check in with the scene boys before we transport our cargo, yeah?”
Jean-Pascal nods. “Good idea, chief.”
The officers on duty turn to their temporary masters, a majority viewing the detectives as superiors in several respects. Some give halfhearted salutes. Technical Officer Deen, finishing a preliminary visual investigation of the bomb fragments, turns to the two.
“That took quite a long time, you two. At least it gave me enough time for an opinion.” He gestures to the fragments of bombs, latex-gloved hand poking each of them in kind. “What we have here is a fragmentation grenade attached to a series of ignition devices, consisting of an ancient telephone and switching board. The blast was directed- rather than destroying all of the device, it pointed the blast outwards towards the victim. Thus we have our victim, murdered by a device which was triggered within view of the murder scene. It’s reminiscent of some of the IEDs found during the Union Wars, as Jean imparted, but I need more time to compare some samples. Once I do, I can probably find you a source for all of it.”
The scritch-scratch of note-talking echoes around the scene once more. Jean, taking notes on paper, and Claspar, taking notes on screen, finish at about the same time and look at each other wordessly. They stare at each other for a brief half second. Claspar grins guiltily.
“Shit, forgot. It is indeed my job.” They turn to the collected officers, wolf whistling sharply in order to get their attention. “We got all we need here, folks! Wrap everything up, get these people on their way, and I want everyone taking photos. I don’t want a single centimeter of this area to go unrecorded in our wonderfully chunky drives. I don’t want a HiVEC invest on our ass, so make sure your notes line up. Fall out!”
The cluster of uniformed people break apart, and the sound of digital shutters clicking away as the hive of activity comes to its zenith. Claspar, hands on their hips, eyes sparkling, views all of it with a hidden smirk that Jean knows. She punches their shoulder, pushing Claspar over to the vehicle in an attempt to break them from their reveries.
“C’mon champ, we gotta drive back to the station.”
“Fine, fine. You can’t tell me that seeing them like that on your first case wasn’t just as satisfying.”
“I’ll agree to that, Alejandro, that is was very satisfying, but I didn’t sit there and delay everyone around me. Get your ass in gear and let’s escort the morgue mobile.”
“I thought I was in charge!”
“You’re I charge of the investigation, but I gotta keep your dumb-ass in check.”
“Fine, fine!”
Claspar gets into the car, their grin somewhat lessened, but starts the vehicle dutifully. The electronic engine turns over, well-tuned by Claspar’s own hands. Cylinders spring into action, pumping the axles and creating force to drive the vehicle. The engine purrs, slightly vibrating the steering wheel, putting out a minimum of heat into the atmosphere as the gearbox clicks, wheels turning to follow the morgue van as it exits the parking lot, turning onto the adjoining thruway towards the center of the Sever’s Cuboid District, the medtechs engaging in light conversation as the city begins to grow in size. The borders of the city can be measured in the height of the buildings, the old skyscrapers acting as the graves of the capitalists that never managed to let go.
The road is smooth, newly paved with compacted plastheap and filled with advertisements. Billboards arise, plastered against the walls of residential buildings. Products, clamoring for the embrace of a consumer’s hands, scream their prolonged exultations for the trade of money for goods and services. As the cars motor along, the sound of the New Yorkian Strip echoes between the skyscrapers, emanating from the basement sets of newborn music lovers, drug-addled and -enhanced dancers that kept the party alive since the night before. The bricklayers desires for the concubines of the night they construct will forever go unheeded, and as the music swells, Claspar feels progressively more and more at home. The engine thrums with engineered grace, the Forbus ElecFrontiersmen cutting through traffic and providing an excellent mechanical guard.
The beat of the city continues in abstract, an aural collection of different songs and genres mixing to create a cacophony of noise. Claspy rolls down the windows, letting the sound of the city fill the patent pleather interior. Jean-Pascal looks out the window, watching the buildings roll by, picking out all the eaves pigeons nest. The city rats have evolved with the humans, putting their homes in difficult to reach places, suffusing many of the dankest parts of the city with the fragrant scent of bird feces. A pigeon falls, blue-green feathers reflecting the noonday sun, and flies along the quietly humming Elec, wings riding the air current its jutting frame releases into the air. It flaps, gaining height and floating among the upper floors, gracefully floating through the sky.
Claspy closes the windows, the fumes of the Underground meaning the stench of weed will eventually suffuse everything, and side-eyes Jean-Pascal in the careful way of one attempting to keep themselves on the road and engage in intelligent conversation.
“So, Jean, I took your advice.”
“About what, in particular.”
“Keeping informed. About pretty much everything.”
“So you’ve been reading the news, eh?”
“Yeah, I have.”
Jean grins to herself as she looks out the reflective glass, taking out their Notebook and bringing up the front page of the forefront in local on-line journalism, The Naked Stripper. “In that case, how about a little quiz, champ?”
“Depends on whether anything happens when I win, chief.”
“Oh somethin’ will happen when you lose, ace.”
“Then how about we make it interesting, compadre?”
“Depends on what you’re proposing, mon cheri?”
“Well, in that case, how about we decide who has to see which side of the footage we just collected? Looser takes the day, winner takes the night footage.”
Jean-Pascal looks at her partner contemplatively. “Why would that matter?”
“Day footage is busier, meaning to do a good job, like we always should, there’s going to be way more for the loser to review. I speak from experience.”
“Well, in that case, let’s make the rules more formal.”
“You always love rules.”
“Shut up.” This admonishment is given with a short grunt as her fingers seek, her eyes scanning for a story that could possibly stump Claspar. “Here’s how we do it- three stories. I read off the introduction, you finish the story with the actual facts of what happened. Understood?”
“Agreed. Hit me with ‘em.”
Jean-Pascal clears her throat. “Here we go, ‘champ.’ ‘The Mayor of the Strip has just recently announced his radical new campaign to do,’ what?”
A single beat of contemplation.
“Easy. He wants to invest in art programs, probably to make some of the art already being made slightly less anti-establishment. He’s such a weakling, can’t imagine him dealing well with the strain of being the topic of a hundred unflattering murals. That’s one for me!”
“Fine, one for you. Next one, and this may be a gimme, but it’s in ‘LIfestyle.’”
“Fuck, Lifestyle? That isn’t news, you slippery fuck.”
“If it’s in the news its news, chief. ‘In the Sever’s Cuboid, a local district administrator is championing the opening of’ what kind of facility?”
Claspar’s face becomes a black mask as their inner circuits begin calculating, turning over piles of memory paper, looking at the walls for hints, and kicking over neural dustbins just in case.
“A new rehab facil? I knew that there’s been a lot of demand for one.”
Jean-Pascal attempts to mimic a loud buzzer. “Ehhhhhhh! Wrong! They’re opening up a drug sampling facility, so people can experiment with legal and decrimed drugs in a safe environ. How did you not hear about it?”
Claspar sticks out their tongue. “Fine! Figures you’d know all about that. I may be a clubber but you have your finger knuckle deep in the vein of the drug scene of this district. Next! Tiebreaker!”
“Fine, fine. This one’s for all the marbles, so listen up! ‘The Fiscal Funding Department has just approved of a stipend’ for what department?”
Claspar shakes their head. “You absolute slut, I knew you wouldn’t play fair. Let’s see, let’s see…”
The gears start to turn. The hippocampus is fired up. The frontal cortex becomes ablaze with electrical impulses.
“The FFD is always approving some bullshit or another, and it always gets put in the news…”
 A small rat begins to search through the meaty walls of brain for a morsel of cheese.
“And there seems to always be someone in need of cash…”
Synapses bang away in a fireworks display of concentration.
“So they’re funding the Beachhead Restoration?”
“Nope!”
The car swerves slightly. “Shit! Not the day footage! You cheapskate.”
Jean-Pascal takes out a cigarette and lights it. The smoke curls around her mouth, filing her grin with clove-scented mist.
“Your problem, Claspy, is that you’re predictable. I can read you like a book.”
“Is that so bad, Jean? We aren’t ancient samurai. We’re just volunteer capos.”
She looks over to their sullen face. “Volunteers don’t go to work at 4am on a Saturday, sweetcheeks. You’re in it now. Just like I hear you’ve been gettin’ it in somewhere else, eh?”
The car continues on as Claspar blushes, the station now within the sight of its headlights. The PC in the trunk makes gentle clunking noises as an antique billy club rolls against it. Claspar’s jaw drops.
“How do you know about that? You been goin’ through my trash, you fuckin’ perv?”
“Nah, bud, I just know a whore when I see one.”
“Fuck you! You’re just envious, as always, that I got a good thing goin’ and you’re sittin’ at home playing the One Hand Cabernet.”
“You think I only use my hand?” Jean makes a shape that’s roughly ten inches long on the air. “No, I use the best materials around.”
“Congrats, babe, now get out of my car before you get my seats wet.”
The two exit, cartoonish grins painted on their faces. Claspar picks up the PC quickly, holding it under their shoulder like a linebacker fielding a casual handoff, and Jean picks up the package containing the human skull. The two turn, and begin walking into the shadow of the Sever’s Cuboid District Civilian Militia Headquarters.